Stronger - Part 2
Title: Stronger ~ Part 2
Rating: Hard R/NC 17 depending on the chapter.
Genre: Angst. teh Love. More Angst
Characters: Brian, Justin & their non-defined, non-conventional family.
Disclaimer: I own nothing except my thoughts, and even then sometimes, I rent.
Timeline: Post-513 All canon assumed.
Summary: That which does not kill us...
Author's Note: This is a work in progress. I am a slow writer - there's no getting around that - but I promise that it will be completed. Comments feed the muse. Just sayin'.
About Part 2: I'm really hoping the old adage, better late than never, applies here. I warned you I was slow, I promised you it will be complete. Both things remain true. And that NC-17 warning ^ ^ up there? This is where it comes into play. A little angst, a little porn, a little angst, a little porn... You know, Brian & Justin. But unlike our beloved boys, it's my first time. Please be gentle!
Part 1
For Karen, without whom my story would not be the same.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Prologue, Part 2
New York City, May 2009
A late spring storm punishes the New York City skyline, distant flashes of lightning reflected a thousand fold in the rain-streaked window, its glass rendered nearly opaque in the gathering darkness. He stands before it, mesmerized by the splashes of color bleeding into muted shades of silver and white. An abstract reflection of the reality that surrounds him, like a fun-house mirror, surreal, yet strangely beautiful. Like one of his paintings, he thinks, and the idea almost makes him smile. Except there is something... wrong with the image, and it forces the smile from his lips before it can even form.
The illusion fades as he moves nearer the window, replaced by the bleak, monochrome cityscape. He doesn’t flinch when a streak of lightning splits the sky, merely counts the beats before the thunderclap follows. Closer now. The storm doesn’t frighten him - in fact, it beckons.
On the sidewalk below, people rush along with heads bowed, coat collars turned up against the driving rain. Some huddle in doorways and under awnings, waiting in vain for a lull in the storm, or for that most elusive of New York City marvels: a taxi in the rain. He envies them. Envies and loathes them. He doesn’t believe in god or the devil, heaven or hell, but if he did he would gladly sell his soul to be where those people are. Out there, with the wind and rain washing over him, free of... this place. He can’t remember the last time he felt good in his skin, and he wants to. He really fucking wants to. His chest tightens, hands clenching at his sides.
Motherfuckers. He wants to scream at them, make them see. He wants to pound his fists on the glass until it shatters into a million pieces. He wants to... scream. Instead, he presses his forehead to the cold, smooth glass. It won’t open. It isn’t meant to. And yet he is not surprised when he slaps his palms against it only to have it dissolve at his touch, flooding the room with noise. So much noise. Wind and rain and thunder. Running and shouting and alarms. He doesn’t care. The rain is hard enough to sting and in seconds he is soaked to the skin, and he doesn’t care. Instead, he turns his face up to the sky. For the first time in what feels like forever, he can breathe.
There are other sounds, too - sounds he shouldn’t be able to hear over the storm, still they are exquisitely clear to him. The whisper of the sliding door, the padding of the nurse’s footfalls on the seamless terrazzo floor, the highly unprofessional, but completely justifiable curse she utters under her breath as she approaches her patient. Urgent demands that he listen, hang on, fight.
He doesn’t. Won’t. Can’t. They promised, no more. No fucking more.
But there is another voice. Further away, yet somehow all around him, as though carried in on the wind that buffets his thin hospital gown. Impossibly soft, but unmistakable. He closes his mind to it, pushes it away. Resists. Because they promised. Because he’s tired. But there is no shutting out the simple truth of the words. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I need you. I can’t do this alone.
2.
Pittsburgh, August 2008
I can’t believe the things I let this little shit talk me into. Three days. I haven’t voluntarily gone three days without getting off since I was thirteen years old. My only consolation as I watch him in the mirror is that he’s suffering at least as much as I am, if the rather impressive woody he’s sporting is any indication. I finish shaving and splash my face with water a little colder than is absolutely necessary before grabbing a towel from the warmer to pat it dry. He’s careful not to meet my eyes as he steps out of the shower, naked and dripping wet, and I swallow a sound that is definitely not a moan as he shakes the water from his hair and runs his hands down the length of his chest. Fuck me.
I toss my towel around his shoulders and use it to pull him to me, steadying him with one hand on his hip while I dry his arms and chest with the other. His skin is hot and moist, scented with the spicy citrus of his body wash, and Christ, he tastes good enough to eat as I lick the droplets of water gathered in the hollow of his collarbone. I slide my tongue up his neck and along his jaw, slowly working my way to his mouth. My fingers graze his stomach as my tongue traces his lips and he actually whimpers when I rub the soft terry cloth between his legs.
“Brian...” he protests, but his tongue betrays him, slipping out to meet mine. The towel falls away as I cup him with my bare hand and he pulls back, glaring at me with what I’m going to say is lust in his eyes. It might be murder though. “Cut it out!” He snatches the towel up off the floor and covers himself like a Victorian bride.
“I’m afraid it’s a little too late to play the bashful virgin, Sunshine.” I reach for him again, but he slaps my hand away.
“It’s only a couple more hours, Brian. It’s not going to kill us,” he says, backing away from me and into the bedroom.
Matching him step for step, I walk him backwards across the room until he bumps into the bed and sits down hard. It’s almost comical how desperate he looks; he wants it as much as I do. I push my fingers into his damp hair and rub my thumbs lightly over his lips, leaning down to whisper against them. “You sure about that?” He makes that little sound in his throat again and I kiss him, but softly.
Really, I’m just fucking with him for sport at this point. I didn’t go through three days of hell just to blow it at the eleventh hour, so to speak. The instructions were clear: no ejaculation for at least 72 hours prior to the main event. Our appointment at the fertility clinic is in an hour - today is the day we make ourselves a baby. Holy fuck. It’s bad enough I can even think those words and not run screaming from the room. The fact I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling at the thought is not even up for discussion. Like I said - the shit I let him talk me into.
“Come on then.” I release him with an exaggerated sigh, “Maybe if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you blow me in the exam room.”
* * *
As it happens, getting off at the clinic is, well, clinical. Anti-climactic even. Yeah, I said it. Turns out that even for us, there is just something a little too weird about delivering the goods that will result in little Johnny or Jane with him bent over a desk and screaming my name, so we take care of business the old fashioned way. After three days of abstinence, it seems like I barely get his pants unzipped before he’s reaching for the container, and to my chagrin, I’m not far behind him. Christ, I can’t remember ever coming so hard from a fucking hand job. The little pang of regret I feel as I watch him pull his pants up over that perfect ass of his is eased by the knowledge that it will be well tended to before I put him back on the plane to New York.
He gives this shaky little smile as he presses the button to let the tech know we’re finished, and he’s strangely quiet when she comes in to collect the samples. She tells us we’re free to leave whenever we’re ready. For all intents and purposes, our part in this is done, at least for the next few days until our little science project is ready to be implanted. Technically, they don’t need us for that, but Abby, our surrogate, agreed to let us be there when she has the procedure. Justin agreed to blow me on demand for the next nine months to convince me to be there. Seems only fair.
As the tech leaves, Justin’s eyes mist over. He turns away quickly, developing a sudden, profound interest in the department store painting on the wall, studying it like it was an undiscovered Monet. Like he hasn’t just done something that will change the course of his life. Like he isn’t trying desperately to be nonchalant about this because he thinks I’ll freak out if he makes too big a deal of it. Little twat.
Not that I can blame him, really. There was a time when the mere suggestion of a commitment like this would have had me searching for the nearest cliff. Nobody knows that better than Justin. Shit, I let him walk out of my life over far less. Twice. And now we’re about to become parents together. It’s no fucking wonder he’s nervous. The only real surprise here is, I’m not.
I probably should be.
Christ, growing up in my family would put any sane person off the idea of reproducing. An abusive bully of a father. A self-proclaimed martyr for a mother. Neither of them above blaming the state of their pathetic, wasted lives on a child they wished was never born. In my experience, the American Dream was a fucking nightmare, an illusion the god-fearing, sanctimonious heteros were more than welcome to keep to themselves. It would be easy to lay my... aversion to the concept of family at their feet.
But the truth is, until Lindsay asked me, I never even thought about having a child. It wasn’t about my shitty childhood, or even about being gay. It was about priorities and mine were my career, my cock, my lifestyle and my friends, and generally speaking, in that order. I had a pretty specific blueprint for my life and being a father was not part of the plan. Call me a self-centered prick if you want, but hedonism is not a dirty word when you are honest about it and I never once pretended otherwise. Honestly, I don’t even remember how she convinced me to do it, only that copious amounts of pot and flattery were involved. She asked and I obliged, with the understanding that this was their kid and I was just the sperm donor. Available for un-credited cameo appearances and the occasional cash infusion and no more. Perhaps not the stuff bedtime stories are made of, but that’s how it was.
And while my so-called friends were willing to accept, even expect the bare minimum from me, Justin always demanded more. More than anyone else ever has. He didn’t just condemn me out of hand or blindly accept my bullshit - he supported me, but he also challenged me. I’m not saying he is the only reason that I finally opened myself up to the idea of being Gus’s father, but his unshakeable belief that I belonged in my kid’s life no matter what was hard to ignore.
I mean, I’ve always loved Gus - contrary to popular belief, I’m not a fucking robot. It’s the oldest cliché in the world, but the instant Lindsay handed him to me, I felt it. That...connection. I’m not sure I would have called it love then - abject fucking terror would probably be more accurate. She put this kid in my arms and suddenly being a father wasn’t a detail on a birth certificate, or some abstract concept. It was reality in the form of a six pound, seven ounce, living, breathing time clock, and my carefully constructed world tilted ever so slightly.
Some would say just shifted back to where it was meant to be all along. There was a time I would have called bullshit on that. I don’t believe in providence, and fate has never really been my friend - but both Gus and Justin came into my life that night, so who the hell knows? I know I never expected they would become the two most important people in my life. But then a shitload of things have happened that I never saw coming, and most of them begin and end with the blond standing beside me.
And now here we are. If you asked Justin, he’d tell you this was all my idea and strictly speaking, that’s the truth. He’d probably also tell you his wanting a family was something new, his ‘suggestion’ we should have one of our own some brilliant revelation brought on by great weed and even better sex. That, not to put too fine a point on it, is bullshit. In one way or another, he’s been telling me since the day we met.
I slip behind him and slide my arms around his waist, settling my chin on his shoulder. He’s practically vibrating with tension as I pull him closer and press a kiss to his ear. “Hey,” is as far as I get before his breath hitches and I feel his throat constricting against my cheek. He swallows compulsively, and I know he’s about three seconds away from melting down. I turn him around and take his face in my hands; maybe I still can’t always say the shit he needs to hear, but I can show him.
* * *
Ten minutes later we’re in the car again and Justin is exacting his revenge for torturing him earlier. I head for the loft, partly because it’s closer to the office and I still have to put in an appearance there today, but mostly because he’s got his head in my lap and he’s mouthing my cock through my jeans. If I had to make it all the way to the house before I fuck him, I would probably drive us off a bridge.
It starts in the elevator with his legs wrapped around my waist and his tongue down my throat. By the time we actually make it into the loft, my shirt is off and he’s biting at my lips hard enough to leave marks. I’m quite willing to carry him all the way to the bedroom but he’s on his knees and tugging at my belt the second I slide the door shut behind us. I try to pull him back up - I want inside his tight little ass - but he slaps my hands away, yanking down my jeans and mumbling something about the first installment on his payment plan. I open my mouth to object and oh, oh fuck... ah fuck, yes... I lean back against the cold steel door and decide this is definitely one of the better deals I ever made. The kid is an artist in more ways than one.
Eventually we make it into the bedroom and I’m finally inside him. Don’t think for a moment his motives for blowing me the minute we got in the door were entirely selfless. Our Sunshine is a pragmatic little fucker. He knows taking the edge off for me will result in the slow, sensual fuck he wants, face to face, the way he craves it when he’s feeling like this. I give him what he wants, and then I roll him over and give him what he needs - hard, fast, deep. He folds his arms under his head and comes to his knees, giving him the leverage he needs to push back, matching me stroke for stroke. I run my hands up and down his back, hold his hip with one, slide the other underneath him and let him rock into my fist in time with my thrusts, until he’s chanting my name and pulling at his hair and coming so hard I think he might have passed out for a second or two. I’m only seconds behind him, and Christ, he takes my breath away.
We collapse onto the bed and it’s all I can do to get the condom off and toss it somewhere in the direction of the waste basket as I roll onto my back, gasping like I’ve just run a fucking marathon. Justin moves with me, quite possibly has no choice since we’re both sticky and drenched in sweat, and he’s panting softly as he turns to face me. He throws one leg over mine and stretches out alongside me, pressing a wet kiss to my chest before he lays his head against it.
“Out of shape, old man?” he laughs wickedly, splaying his fingers over my pounding heart.
His words might have a little more sting if I hadn’t just come for the third time since we walked through the door. Or if I couldn’t feel his heart beating like a trip hammer against my ribs. Still, old man? I grab a fistful of his hair and tug his head back until I can see his face.
“Careful now, or I might just have to show you some of the tricks I’ve learned at my advanced age.” I reach down and slap his firm, round ass hard enough to remind him just how much he loves benefiting from my experience. He yelps in protest when I do it again, but even soft and spent, his dick twitches against my thigh in appreciation. I bring my hand back up to join the other one in his hair and use them to fit his mouth to mine, kissing him until he’s as breathless as I am and I feel the beginnings of my own erection stirring again. His eyes go wide as I pull him on top of me and he feels me pressing into his belly.
“What’s the matter, sonny boy?” I smirk as he rolls off me and shimmies away. “Can’t keep up with the old man?”
“You’re not human,” he says darkly, eyeing my semi-hard cock with suspicion. I try my best to look duly offended.
“Out of shape, my ass.”
“Yeah, it’s not your ass I’m worried about,” he says, scooting a little further down the bed. “Keep that thing away from me!”
“Uhhuh.” I shrug, sitting up and reaching for a cigarette. I light one and inhale deeply, sending a long stream of smoke in his direction before adding, “Remember that next time you question my physical prowess.” He crawls back over and grabs it from my hand, laughing as he takes a drag and lays back down beside me.
“Freak.”
“Amateur.”
I retrieve my cigarette and throw my arm around his shoulders, pulling him back to me while I finish the smoke in comfortable silence. I’m fairly certain he’s fallen asleep and I’m debating getting up and going in to the office for a couple of hours when I feel his arm slide across my stomach and tighten around me. He’s peppering my chest with soft, dry kisses, his silky blond hair tickling a trail behind them, and goddamn if it doesn’t go straight to my dick. I’m about ready to flip him over for another round when I hear his voice, barely a whisper and warm against my skin.
“I love you, Brian.”
He doesn’t stop, or even look up; I’m not sure he even meant for me to hear that. I know he doesn’t expect me to respond, which is just one of the reasons that every once in a while, I can. I stroke his hair and leave my hand where it comes to rest at the back of his neck, and answer him just as quietly. “Me too.”
Fuck it. I didn’t really want to go to work today anyway.
* * *
This time he really is passed out. I know this because I run the tip of my index finger down the pale expanse of skin from just under his arm to the curve of his hip, and there’s nothing. No squirming, no gasping, no fuck off, Brian. Justin is the most ticklish person on the planet and his sides are his weak spot. He’s on his back, one arm flung to the side and the other folded across his eyes, pretty much exactly where he’d landed after that last orgasm, but he doesn’t so much as twitch when I retrace my path back up along his ribs, so yeah, he’s dead to the world.
What I’m less sure of is why I’m still conscious after we’ve spent the better part of a day fucking ourselves into oblivion. I’d rather cut off my one good ball than admit it, but he wore me out. I have to piss so bad my bladder’s about to explode and I’m too exhausted to haul my ass to the bathroom. Fuck me. Welcome to your future, Mr. Kinney. Will you be checking any baggage today? Then again, I’m awake and my brain is still functioning, unlike the twink lying comatose at my side. There is that. But I really, really have to piss.
He’s got one leg hooked over mine, so I’m careful as I ease out from under him and slide off the bed. I close the bathroom door behind me so as not to wake him, but I needn’t have bothered - when I come back out he’s rolled up in the duvet and drooling on my fucking pillow. Twat. I pick up my jeans and my cigarettes and leave him to his dreams.
My laptop is open on my desk; a glance at the screen on my way to the refrigerator for a Pellegrino makes me want to turn right back around again. Cynthia was less than impressed when I called to inform her I wouldn’t be in after all. You’d think after nearly ten years she would stop bitching me out when I force her to reschedule vital meetings at the last minute. You’d be wrong. I’d fire her if we didn’t both know she’s the main reason I can take a day off now and then. I sit down and take a long swallow of the sparkling water and wonder why it isn’t something stronger as I count... eleven new e-mails since noon. All of them from one person or another at Kinnetik, all of them flagged IMPORTANT. Christ.
I resist the urge to just delete them unread on the off chance there actually is something that couldn’t wait the few fucking hours until I’m back in the office. A quick check of my phone shows six voice messages waiting. Would somebody please remind me why I pay these people ridiculous amounts of money? I start with the oldest e-mail first and immediately feel my eyes glaze over. It’s not bad news, it’s just my Pavlovian response to anything from Ted Schmidt with Quarterly Costs Analysis in the subject line. There are two more just like it and by the third I’m trading the Pellegrino for a nice, neat shot of Beam.
I toss it back and consider another, but settle for a beer instead. We skipped breakfast and fucked our way through lunch; a poke in the ribs didn’t rouse Justin, but his stomach will, sooner rather than later would be my guess, so I foresee a trip to the diner in my near future. As I head back to the computer, beer in hand, from the darkest recesses of my mind I hear a snippet of a song I must have heard in some breeder bar I was forced to meet a client in... ‘it’s five o’clock somewhere.’ Like I give a flying fuck. But it makes me laugh and I get through the rest of the e-mail with Jimmy Buffet’s voice in my head urging me to drink to my heart’s content no matter the time of day. God bless America.
The voice messages are more of the same. One from Cynthia with the new date and time of my aborted meeting. Two from Ted, essentially repeating everything he said in the e-mails. Fucking accountants. The next one is from Stephan in the art department, wishing to discuss the notes I made on his boards for the new Home Station campaign. I delete that one, quite certain he’ll never fully appreciate how fortunate he is that I don’t return his call. Next up is Cynthia again and I smirk at her tone of voice, almost conciliatory after the frostbite I got listening to her first message. I am definitely not smiling by the end of this one.
“Hi Brian, sorry to bother you again. I just thought you should know the doctor’s office called here this afternoon. They said they left a message on your cell, but it sounded kind of urgent, so I wanted to make sure you got it.” ... ... ... “I hope everything’s all right. Call me if you’re not going to be in tomorrow.”
Fucking-mother-fuck! They aren’t supposed to contact me at the office. Nobody is supposed to know about what we’re doing until after everything is safely underway - we made that perfectly clear. I’m about to dial the number to rip somebody at the fertility clinic a new asshole when another email pops up on my screen. It’s from Dr. DePietro, our specialist and the man who will be performing the procedure on Abby. I move the cursor to click on it and then I hear Cynthia’s words again ... it sounded kind of urgent.
And I hesitate. Pathetic as it may be, I don’t want to open it. I think of Justin sleeping in the next room, the way he was smiling when we left that clinic this morning. Let me tell you - Debbie has no fucking idea what sunshine really is. All I know is I never want to be the one to take that away from him. Never again. Shit.
I click in and the first thing I notice is that it’s cc’d to both Justin Taylor and Abigail Brennan - and there it is again - this irrational urge to stop right there, because nothing good can come of reading any further. But my eyes automatically scan the page and see what amounts to a form letter, confirming our visit this morning and reminding us our appointment for the implantation is tentatively scheduled for Thursday. They will contact us the morning of to confirm the time. There’s a personal note at the bottom from Dr. DePietro himself, advising us that today’s part of the procedure was successful and congratulating us on this latest step in our little odyssey. And that’s it. No drama, no tragedy. Fuck me.
A breath I didn’t realize I was holding seeps out and I scrub a hand over my face, not sure if I should laugh or throw myself under the nearest bus. But I do make a mental note to educate Cynthia on the meaning of the word ‘urgent’. Jesus Christ.
I try to identify the odd feeling in my gut and all I can come up with is relief. I want to say it’s only about Justin, that I’m just glad I don’t have to disappoint him. But it’s more than that, and I won’t pretend it isn’t. For weeks, months now it’s been all about legalities and tests and schedules and science. Today... all that theory became reality. Today, at some point - fuck, maybe if the universe has a sense of humor it happened while I was balls deep in Justin - our kid was conceived. So if I was a little unnerved to think maybe something went wrong with that, well, that’s just too fucking bad. I know how happy this will make him and all I want to do is go in and wake him up right now so I can see his face when he reads it. And that is quite possibly the gayest thought I’ve ever had in my entire life, yet I still find myself climbing the few steps up to the bedroom. I am so completely screwed.
He’s unraveled himself from the duvet again and is sprawled on his stomach, his arms wrapped loosely around my pillow. Eight years in and the sight of him naked in my bed never fails to make me hard. The late afternoon sun filters through the louvered slats, painting his body with alternating stripes of light and dark, accentuating the smooth, flawless skin of his back, the curve of his ass, the mop of messy blond hair turned pale gold in the thin sunlight. Sometimes I wish I were the artist he is so I could capture him like this, commit it to canvas so the whole world could see him the way I see him. Christ, I really am turning into a lesbian. But then he rolls partway onto his side and crooks his leg, raising his perfect ass ever so slightly in the air and the things I want to do to him would send a muncher screaming into the night.
Slipping off my jeans, I crawl onto the bed and stretch out alongside him. Even sound asleep it only takes a moment before instinct kicks in and he’s moulding himself to me. I drape my arm over his waist and immediately he covers it with his, threading his fingers into mine and pulling my hand up close to his chest. My growing erection is nestled between the warm, fleshy cheeks of his ass and part of me just wants to grab a condom and lube and fuck him awake, but he’s not ready. Not yet. Fortunately, I know exactly how to remedy that.
I use my nose to push his hair aside and run my tongue along the nape of his neck, breathing him in, letting the taste and smell of him fill my senses. A small sigh escapes him as I press a kiss to the top of his spine and move my hips just enough to let him feel me. I lightly graze his nipple and feel the tiny nub stiffen under my palm. His hand slips away as mine drifts lower, over his flat belly, bypassing his slowly filling cock for the smooth, white skin of his hip, so thin there it’s almost translucent. My fingertips feather down the length of his thigh then back up and through the wiry nest of curls. Another, more breathy sigh parts his lips as I wrap my fingers around his cock, already thick and heavy in my hand.
I take my time, letting my tongue play along the lines and planes of his shoulder blades, alternately kissing and licking my way downward. His breathing begins to quicken as his body reacts to my attentions, the nerves and muscles twitching just below the surface. Goosebumps rise along the wet trail my mouth leaves behind as I inch my way lower, but he’ll fight waking as long as he can. Justin loves fucking, he loves being fucked, but there is nothing Justin loves more than waking up slowly with my tongue in his ass. He’s fully hard by the time I reach the small of his back, and when I press my lips there he thrusts instinctively into my hand. The small, disapproving sound he makes in his throat when I let him slip from my fingers changes quickly to a moan of pure need as I roll him onto his stomach and take his hips in my hands, pulling him up just enough to allow me full access. He all but purrs as I lay a line of soft, wet kisses along the cleft of his ass. Now he’s awake.
Using my thumbs to spread him just a little, I lick slowly from his tailbone all the way down to his balls, tonguing the small, smooth patch of skin beneath them just long enough to make him squirm, then I flatten my tongue and sweep a wide swath back and forth between the two points until he’s soaking wet and panting. I grab a pillow and slip it underneath him for support and he’s already grinding against it when I bring my mouth back to him and part his cheeks again. My warm breath plays over his hole as I trace the edges with the tip of one finger and lightly flick it with my tongue. He pushes back with a breathy moan and when I answer with a firm kiss directly on his tight little pucker, it’s all I can do to hold his hips still.
“Don’t come.” I bite softly at one cheek for emphasis and feel his body shudder its response as I point my tongue and push into him. He clenches around me, bearing down as if trying to deny me entrance even as he pulls me in deeper. I stretch my tongue as far as I can go, then slip it out and lick a few quick circles around his hole before stabbing it back inside him. Again and again I repeat the pattern until he’s a quivering mess, chanting my name and rutting mindlessly into the pillow to gain a little friction for his leaking cock. Fuck, I love doing this to him.
“Oh god, Brian.” Brian, Brian, Brian. I tighten my grip on his hips and pull him up, denying him even that much relief.
“I said don’t come.” The words are barely a whisper as I slip my tongue inside again and mercilessly slide a finger in alongside it. He lets out a groan that is somewhere between agony and ecstasy and opens up for me as I nudge his prostate. He’s close. So fucking close he’s trembling and I’m tempted to make him come just like this. But that’s not what he wants, and it’s not what I want. Christ, I’m so hard now that I could probably come just from the sounds he’s making. He practically sobs with frustration when I slip my finger out and turn him over onto his back. He reaches for his cock, dark red and hard against his belly, but I grab his hand, and then the other as well as I move up his body and place his arms above his head. I hold them there, silencing his protest with a long, wet kiss before I work my way back down between his legs.
Lowering my mouth to him again, I swipe my tongue over the velvety-soft head of his cock, savoring his taste, so familiar and yet I never tire of it. I’m still for a moment, just letting my hot, moist breath flow over his superheated skin, before I lick slowly up one side of the shaft and down the other. He draws a shuddering, almost desperate breath as I swirl my tongue around the base and I’m wondering how much more he can take when I feel his hands slide into my hair and his knees come up. He plants his feet on either side of my shoulders and I look up into wild blue eyes. His message is loud and clear: Playtime is over.
Using one hand to caress his balls, I stroke his erection with the other and run my thumb through the droplets of pre-come gathered at the tip, wetting my lips with it as I take him into my mouth. They barely close around him before he arches off the bed and thrusts upwards with a strangled curse. It takes all my expertise not to gag as the thick head of his cock slams into the back of my throat, but I move with him and take it all. He falls back to the mattress and his fingers tug at my hair; I slide my hands up his thighs, splay them over his taut belly, feel his muscles rippling from the effort he’s making to control himself. He thrusts once and pulls back, but I follow him down, the low moan in my throat his signal to let go.
And he does. Slowly at first, rolling his hips so that he almost slips all the way out at the bottom of each stroke, then I hollow my cheeks and pull him back in on the upstroke, massaging him with my tongue. He gasps when I swallow around him and I stop moving altogether, letting him set the rhythm as he rocks in and out of my mouth. I hum my approval, the vibrations setting off little shockwaves in him that I can feel all the way down to my toes, and he’s lost. A constant stream of sounds pour out of him, a litany of oh, and jesus and fuck and oh oh yes fuck oh. His hands slip from my hair and I look up to see them fisted in his own, like that’s the only thing keeping him from flying apart. His head tosses from side to side as his pace quickens, each thrust of his hips shorter, until he’s hardly pulling out at all, only pushing deeper. He’s so fucking hot when he’s like this, shamelessly wanton, his whole being concentrated on just one thing - the pleasure of my mouth on his cock. I need to fuck him, need to be inside him again. Right now.
Relaxing my throat, I take him in to the root before I contract it again, and he’s gone, his orgasm rippling through him in waves as he comes hard and hot down my throat. I swallow all he has to give until I feel the last faint pulse on my tongue and then let him slip from my mouth as I lean up to feed him a taste. He’s still flying but he sucks my tongue into his mouth on pure instinct, swirling it greedily with his own, and he nearly growls when I break the kiss just long enough to reach for a condom. He bites at my shoulder, my neck, sliding his lips up to suck on my earlobe, and Jesus fuck, it’s all I can do to roll it on as he moans wetly against my ear.
“So fucking hot, Brian.”
Christ. I come to my knees and lift his legs onto my shoulders, sliding him towards me until his ass is in my lap, my cock poised at his entrance. As wet and open as he is, the lube of the condom is enough to let me in without hurting him. Watching his face as I enter him is an experience all on its own. The way he bites down on his bottom lip in anticipation when I tease his hole with the head of my cock. The brief flash of pain that crosses his face as I breach that first, tight ring of resistance. The way his eyes darken with lust as I slowly push past it, the fine beads of sweat that dot his upper lip, and the warm flush that creeps up his chest, staining his pale skin red with desire as I pivot my hips and sink a little farther into his sweet, round ass. I’ve witnessed it a thousand times and if I see it ten thousand more, it won’t be enough. It will never be enough.
I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. He’s… fucking beautiful. But it’s more than that. It’s more than knowing that he has a deeper need, a desire for me that goes beyond pleasure or pain. More than knowing that the passion, the pure, unadulterated love in his eyes is just for me, that nobody else has ever seen him like this and nobody ever will. It’s knowing that he can finally see the same things when he looks at me. He can, and he does.
He practically folds himself in half to get to my lips, and I meet him half way as our mouths crash together. We kiss long and hard, every sweep of his tongue against mine going straight to my dick and I feel myself grow impossibly harder inside him. I wrap my arms around his thighs and hold on as I snap my hips, burying myself to the hilt. Our lips part with a wet, smacking sound as his head falls back, his mouth open in a silent scream. Another thrust forces the sound from him, a guttural, throaty sigh that builds into a gasping plea for more. More. Now. He reaches for me again, his nails biting into my arms as he grabs them for support and fuck, I think he might be drawing blood, but I am beyond caring as he licks at my mouth, his teeth scraping along my bottom lip.
“Fuck me, Brian. Do it now.” I nearly come just from the sound of his whispered demand against my lips and my tenuous control shatters.
“Gonna,” I grunt, pulling out and then slamming back into him again. “Gonna fuck you hard,” I promise, pushing him back onto the bed. His shoulders are pressed into the mattress, his hands grasping for purchase at the sheets as I rock into him. He’s so tight, so hot, so fucking good it hurts but it’s still not enough. Never enough. I throw my head back, thrust harder, push deeper. Every few strokes I change my angle so that my cock bumps his sweet spot and he’s already hard again. Each nudge of his prostate sends a spasm of pleasure through him, which translates directly to my cock as he clenches around me. So. Fucking. Good.
I run my hands up his legs, feel the muscles flex in his calves where they rest on my shoulders as I turn my head and lick a rivulet of sweat from the curve of his knee, his toes curling from the sensory overload. I look down at him and he’s doing that thing he does when he’s on the edge of being too far gone. His neck is arched, his head thrown back, with his arms folded over his eyes, as if sight is one more sense than he can handle when every synapse in his body is firing at once. His bottom lip is caught in his teeth and he’s taking these shallow little sips of air that punctuate each thrust of my hips. I have to close my eyes for moment too, or this will be over right now, and I want it to last. I want to hear him beg to come again.
I ease his legs down off my shoulders but keep them hooked over my arms as I slow things down a little, lengthening each roll of my hips so that I pull nearly all the way out before sinking back in, balls deep and angling for his prostate with every stroke. He folds under me as I lower my body to him and his mouth falls open with a needful moan as his erection brushes against my stomach. I stop and hold myself deep inside him, reveling in the feel of his ass contracting around my cock. “Justin.” I let his legs fall back to the bed and plant one hand on either side of his head. “Justin, look at me.”
He moves his arms and looks up at me through heavy lidded eyes, his tongue barely peeking out between swollen, dusky pink lips just begging to be kissed. If there is anything hotter in this world, I sure as fuck haven’t ever seen it.
I lean down and brush my lips against his, tracing their outline with the tip of my tongue and nipping softly along his jaw line. He turns his head to the side, giving me access to his smooth, white neck and I find his pulse point, sucking gently at it as I slide my hands under his shoulders and up into his hair. I use it to bring his mouth back to mine as I begin to fuck him again with long, smooth strokes. The kiss deepens and he draws my tongue into his mouth, sucking it with the same slow, sensual rhythm. I try to keep most of my weight on my arms but he arches into me, desperate for more contact, rutting his leaking cock against my abs. He drags his mouth from mine, gasping, his voice frantic with need. One word is all it takes.
“Please.”
Gathering him to me, I bury my face in his neck as my body covers his completely. Both of us slick with sweat, we move together easily, his small, lithe body molding itself to mine. I feel every beat of his heart, against my lips, against my chest, in the throbbing of his hard cock trapped between us. His legs are wrapped around me so tightly I’m not even really pulling out as I rock into him, yet I still feel as if I go deeper with every thrust of my hips. He’s moaning my name, and fuck me, I’m moaning his, too, as our pace quickens and my orgasm builds past the point of no return.
“Now, Justin,” I breathe into his ear and before the words are fully formed his body goes rigid in my arms. My mouth seeks his, swallowing his cry as he finds his release. I’m right there with him, the orgasm barreling through me like a freight train, coming deep inside him as he contracts around me, milking me of every last drop. We collapse onto the bed, boneless, our mouths still joined; breathing each other’s air, unable to do anything but ride the wave together. I feel his smile against my lips as our bodies calm and our tongues find each other again in a slow, deep kiss. There are a lot of things we don’t always get right, Justin and I, but when we’re like this, we’re fucking perfect.
* * *
“Red.”
“What?”
He leans over my shoulder and peers more closely at the latest version of Stephan’s Home Station ad on my monitor, tapping his finger on the bold, black type.
“It should be red. Try Mars or maybe Chinese. And bigger.” A few clicks of the mouse and he’s changed the color and tweaked size of the font. “There.”
The self-satisfied grin on his face dares me not to love it, but goddamn if it doesn’t change the entire mood of the board. Twat. Before I can come up with a way to approve without actually telling him what a talented fucker he is, he’s got my chair turned around and he’s sitting in my lap.
“I’ll take my consulting fee out in trade if you don’t mind,” he says, reaching for my belt. An unfailing eye for color is only one of his many gifts - within seconds my pants are loosened and his warm fingers are stroking me through the fine, cotton knit of my underwear. Christ. I have to bite my lip to stifle a groan as he licks at my ear. “I think you’ll find my rates are extremely reasonable, Mr. Kinney.”
I’m debating the costs vs. benefits of sweeping my desk clean and fucking him across it when I hear a quiet, but all-too-familiar cough from behind us. The little shit doesn’t even blush anymore, just smiles over my shoulder at her and quietly slips his hand out of my pants.
“Hi Cynthia.”
“Justin. It’s good to see you.”
She’s as bad as he is, barely batting an eyelash as I turn the chair back around to face her, my arms still full of blond. I wonder exactly when it was that I ceased to intimidate either one of them?
“The Remson people are here for your ten o’clock. I put them in the board room.” She makes herself busy gathering the files for the meeting while I dump Justin off my lap and stand up to get my pants back in order. “And remember, we have Veri-Fine at eleven-thirty.”
I narrow my eyes - she’s well aware how much I hate back-to-back meetings when a pitch is involved, but since this is the client I blew off earlier in the week, I know better than to challenge her on it. Beside me, however, I can practically hear the gears grinding in Justin’s head. We’re due at the fertility clinic at two o’clock.
“Uh, Brian, you didn’t, uhh, forget did you?”
As if that were humanly possible. He’s been practically bouncing off the walls for three days now.
“Seeing as I haven’t had a stroke in the fifteen minutes since you last mentioned it, no, I haven’t forgotten.”
“Well good.” He stretches up onto his toes for a quick peck on the lips. Fortunately for him, he’s smart (and fast) enough to be on the other side of the desk and half way to the door before he continues, “It never hurts to remind people of things when they get to be your age, you know.” Unfortunately for him, he realizes his mistake too late. I know this by the soft, sibilant curse he utters as he reaches for the handle.
Watching his expression change from cocky to chagrined in approximately seven-tenths of a second almost makes the crack about my age worth it. Almost. He hesitates for a moment before turning around, clearly weighing the odds that I’ll just let him off the hook based solely on the power of his beguiling blue eyes and sheepish smile. I arch an eyebrow at him that says, just as clearly, keep dreaming, Sunshine. I jiggle the keys to the Mercedes, dangling them just out of his reach as he makes his way back around the desk. He’s hired Emmett to cater Mother Taylor’s 50th birthday bash next month and they’re spending the day doing whatever it is they do to plan such an event. I do not want to know what part of that requires the use of my brand new, eighty-thousand dollar SUV - I’ve learned it’s better to just trust in his judgment. And in the knowledge that they both know I’ll have them killed if anything happens to it.
“Forget something, did we?”
His t-shirt rides up just enough to expose his flat, smooth belly as he reaches for the keys, and my dick twitches in anticipation of the many ways I could make him pay for his impudence. But I can feel Cynthia’s eyes burning a hole in the side of my head, so I settle for a quick, hard smack on his ass instead, as I pull him to me and press the keys into his hand. “Sorry, Brian,” I say mockingly against his lips as he offers me a tongue-filled act of contrition. He kisses me like he means it, and then pulls away, parroting me with a slightly breathless apology.
“Sorry, Brian.”
Any thoughts of a more... meaningful form of retribution are dashed by yet another cough from behind, this one decidedly less discreet than the last. Cynthia hitches up the armful of folders she’s holding, looking pointedly between us and the door with what, for her sake, I’m going to pretend is not the world’s most ill-disguised eye roll.
Regretfully, I let Justin go and after extracting yet another promise that I’ll be ready to go when he comes back to pick me up, he leaves for his date with Emmett, while I dazzle Remson with the final touches on the campaign for their newest wonder-drug. Of course, that isn’t all that much of a challenge. In fact, since re-signing with Kinnetik after the epic failure of their ‘Rekindle the Flame’ ad campaign, courtesy of Gardner Vance and his pathetic team of yes-men, I’m fairly confident that Lawrence Remson would get on his knees for me if I told him it would help sell his little miracle hard-on pills.
Veri-Fine Foods is another story. Frankly, I’m surprised they even bothered to reschedule this meeting. It took six fucking weeks just to get the opportunity to present our proposal to their head of Product Development, who happens to be an officious little prick. Our first presentation was met with mild enthusiasm, but enough ‘suggestions’ to pretty much send us back to the drawing board. Then the revisions were ‘genius’, just what he had in mind, except... those didn’t quite make the cut, either. I would have already told him to shove his fucking organic frozen dinners up his permanently clenched ass, except he also happens to be the son of Harrison Grant, Sr. President and CEO of The Verity Group. The sixth largest food and agriculture conglomerate in the country, with an advertising budget larger than our top five clients combined.
I don’t want it all. Fuck, we couldn’t even handle it all - I just want a piece of it. A very lucrative piece of it. That I even consented to do a request for proposal (also known in the advertising community as a license to steal, in which a potential client basically asks you to provide them your best ideas, and then decides whether or not they’ll pay you for them) proves just how much I want it. I despise the practice with the heat of a thousand suns, but it was the only way to even get a foot in the door with Verity.
I take one last look over our latest, and as far as I’m concerned, our last pitch before I head into the board room. One way or another, this is it. It’s some of our best work, and if good old Harry Jr., can’t see a brilliant concept when it’s right in front of him, then he can fuck off.
Maybe there is something to the old saw about the third time being charmed, or maybe Junior just finally got his head out of his ass, but he loves it. We’re past the final hurdle and before they leave, we have a firm commitment to proceed with test marketing, and a meeting with his father exactly one month from today. All with fifteen minutes to spare before Justin gets here.
The door barely closes behind them when Sid and Janelle file in, each of them looking ever so slightly green around the gills as they wait for the verdict. I really have trained them well. As my art director and media strategist, respectively, they fucking well should be. There aren’t many second chances to fuck something up at Kinnetik, never mind thirds. But I was the one who signed off on the proposals, so the responsibility ends with me. And the fact is, their work was top-notch, based on what they were asked for. Neither of their jobs were ever in jeopardy - not that I’ll ever tell them that. I lean back in my chair and tent my fingers, regarding them in somber silence until Janelle starts to look like she may actually vomit, and I get yet another death-glare from Cynthia. Seriously, the woman never lets me have any fun.
“We’re in.”
Sid lets out a honest-to-god whoop and pumps a fist in the air, while Janelle’s modest little ‘Yesss!’ is barely audible, but their relief is palpable, as is their enthusiasm.
“Congratulations. Nice work, both of you.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“Thank you, Brian.”
They’re both beaming, which, of course, I can’t allow for too long. “Don’t thank me yet. Unless you didn’t have any plans for a life in the foreseeable future?” I hand them each a copy of the project file. “You’ve got a month.” Neither of them so much as blinks, and I can already see the wheels turning as they leave the boardroom together. Like I said - well trained.
Cynthia and I are still going over some of the meeting notes when her assistant taps on the door, stepping inside just far enough to get her attention. I swear, this kid is two weeks into her internship here from Allegheny and I’ve yet to actually hear her speak. Most of her time seems to be spent trying to be invisible whenever I’m in the same room. I’m not sure what she’s heard about me - the truth, no doubt - but she’s going to need a lot thicker skin if she’s going to survive in the advertising world. She’s Cynthia’s problem though, not mine. Taking on a student each semester was her idea, so any and all babysitting duties fall to her. We all know what happened the last time *I* hired an intern.
And speaking of the devil, I see his blond head hovering just behind her in the hallway. I tell her to let him know I’ll be out in five minutes - mostly just to see her reaction. On cue, she turns scarlet and hands Cynthia the messages she’s clutching, before murmuring what I can only assume is ‘Yes, Mr. Kinney’, and scurrying back out.
“Christ.” I can’t help but laugh.
“Be nice, Brian.”
Right. Even Cynthia can’t quite say that with a straight face, chuckling as she sorts through the handful of pink message slips. Her smile falters as she comes to the last one, and when she looks up at me, it’s turned into the thin-lipped frown that loosely translates to ‘Brian has fucked up yet again.’
“Brian,” she begins, shaking her head as she hands me the slip, “it’s none of my business, but should you really be ignoring this?” I have no idea what the fuck she’s talking about, and she must realize that as I glance at the note and raise an eyebrow at her, because she adds in a rush, “You did get the message the other day, right?”
There is a heartbeat or two as I read it when I truly don’t understand. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear Cynthia’s voice. I just thought you should know the doctor’s office called here this afternoon. They said they left a message on your cell, but it sounded kind of urgent.... That goddamn fucking clinic! Except... I look at the note again, written in bullet points, in the small, cursive script of a nervous college student.
Following up on his phone call from Monday.
Important to contact him as soon as possible.
Please call or come by the office at your earliest opportunity.
“Brian? I called to make sure...”
“I got your message.”
“But...” Her eyes dart to the paper in my hand.
“I said I got it.” It comes out harsher than intended and immediately, the tight-lipped frown returns, but fuck me, I need a minute here.
I read the message one more time. The language is simple enough, but the words just won’t compute. Because right above them is the name, Dr. Marvin Keppler, and the phone number to call. Not the fertility clinic. Not even fucking close.
“Brian?”
“I called. It’s nothing.” Even I am surprised at how easily the lie rolls off my tongue. “They just needed to reschedule my appointment. His receptionist must have forgotten to make a note.” I crumple the paper and toss it into the wastebasket. She seems mollified, if not completely convinced, and before she can wind up again, the door opens and Justin pops his head in. God bless the impatient little shit.
“Ready?”
At the moment, I’m not sure I’ve ever been less ready for anything, but I nod and let him lead the way.
We make the twenty minute drive to the clinic in relative silence. He asks me how my meetings went, briefs me on Emmett’s plan to make Jennifer’s birthday party ‘one for the ages’, informs me that Debbie will have my balls if I miss one more of her fucking family dinners. My responses are predictable - short and utterly non-conducive to conversation - and mercifully, he doesn't push it. For once, I’m glad he thinks he knows me so well. Because I'm certain that's why he's so willing to let it slide - the same reason he’s talking about everything except why we're here - because he thinks I'm going to fucking lose it if he does. He can't possibly know how much more welcome that would be than the relentless echo of Cynthia’s voice in my head. Urgent. Urgent. Urgent.
It’s not until we’re in the parking lot that he finally starts to crack. Abby has arrived as well - we see her disappearing through the front door just as I pull into an empty space and shut the engine down. A solid minute passes and I’m painfully aware he’s waiting for me to make the first move - for any sign that I’m really okay with this. And I am. I swear I am, I just don’t seem to be able to let go of the steering wheel.
I feel his eyes on me, imploring me, and I hate that I can’t look at him. I hate that his hand is shaking slightly as he reaches across the seat and lays it on top of mine.
“Brian... are you sure? Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
But I hate that most of all - that small, plaintive note of doubt in his voice - the one I put there. God damn mother fucking son of a bitch, I don’t want to ruin this day for him. I won’t. I just fucking won’t. I turn my hand over and lace my fingers with his, squeezing it tight.
“I’m sure.”
I can feel the heat of his smile before I ever turn my head - and I know that whatever else happens, this is right. When I do look, he’s... fucking radiant, and he asks his question like he already knows the answer. He should, he’s heard it before.
“Then you mean it?” He grins, and with every bit of every thing I’ve ever felt for him, I smile, too.
“I’ve never meant anything more.”
We meet halfway over the console for a deep, wet kiss and it’s a long moment before he reluctantly pulls back.
“We have to get inside.”
I nod my agreement, but there’s something I have to do first.
“You go ahead in, I have to make a quick call.”
“Briaannn!”
“I know. Can’t be helped. I’ll be right there.” He opens his mouth to object, but I silence him in the most effective way I know how. Okay, the second most effective. “I promise, I’ll be right behind you. Go on.”
Once he’s through the door, I take out my cell and scroll through the list of voice messages. Sure enough, there is one from Monday with the small, blue star beside it that indicates ‘unheard’. How the fuck did I miss it? I’ve gone over it a dozen times in my head in the last half hour, and I still don’t know. Not that it matters now.
I touch the keypad and the options pop up on the screen. It crosses my mind that I could just hit ‘delete’ and pretend I never got it. My next checkup is in a couple weeks anyway - that’s why we had the lab run my markers, since they were already doing the standard tests for the sperm donation. Save time, save aggravation. They’re always negative anyway, right? So why the fuck not?
I could wait.
Or, I could remove his number from my contact list and pretend I’ve never heard of him when he calls again. Because he will call again. Fuck that. Fuck me.
I listen.
‘Hello Brian, Marvin Keppler here. We received some results from LabCorp on the blood samples you gave last week. I realize your appointment isn’t for two weeks, however, some of the numbers are a little off. It may only be a lab error, but I’d like to run the tests again here at the office, just to be on the safe side. I don’t really think there’s anything to worry about, still, as you know, time is of the essence in these things. You don’t need an appointment, just come on in and we’ll get you looked after. Tomorrow would be best.’
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
* * *
Part 3